My name is James Michael Richardson. I was a homeless man living in Manhattan up until June Seventeenth, two-thousand-two. My story made me famous. I was not a part of a family who lost a loved one because of it, not a loving boyfriend, husband, son, uncle. Not a friend, coworker, nothing. Instead I sat on the street and watched them pass. Some of them not giving me a glance or second of their time. A few though were probably the nicest people I have ever met. A hot coffee, a simple “How are you doing?” or “What’s your name?” is what made their lives important to me. The rest of them I watched shuffling along, suits fresh from the dry-cleaners, neatly pressed skirts and blouses, hair gelled and sprayed in position, shoes clacking along. I got to know their routines as I am sure they didn’t care about mine. Helen Burkbe, however, she was one of a kind. Chocolate brown curls, Granny Smith-green eyes with sun-drop flakes. Her lips were soft pink and thin, faint freckles were delicately placed across her high cheek bones and small nose. She remained my beacon of light long past her death. She is the reason I told this story. She didn’t have any to remember her, like me she was an adult orphan in a big city of people who didn’t care. No boyfriend, no siblings, no extended family she knew or cared for. It was my job to make sure her death wasn’t over-looked. I watched One World Trade and Two World Trade burn and fall to the ground on September Eleventh, Two-thousand-One.
CHANGES:
Statistic:
The attacks of 9/11 resulted in a death toll of 2,996 people.These numbers included World Trade Center employees, the passengers of the airplanes American 11, and United 175, firefights, police officers, emergency workers, paramedics, EMT's for private services, the attacks in Arlington and Shanksville, Military personnel, and the hijackers themselves. New York City was only able to identify remains for about 1,600 of the World Trade Center victims. As of August 2011, 1,631 victims have been identified, while 1,122 of the victims remain unidentified. Helen is a part of the 1,122 unidentified victims.
Dialogue from character:
"James, Gatsby was so high school, not to say Fitzgerald wasn't a wonderful writer, but the book didn't leave a.. uhh, lasting effect on me." Helen argued over a pipping hot cup of coffee.
"I see what you're saying, but today's authors have no idea what they're doing. They just write and don't bother with symbolism or-" James was cut off.
"All that nonsense?" Helen questioned. "I know what you mean, it's really sad. But just because I don't like that book doesn't mean I don't enjoy good literature."
"I see, I see. Well-" James was cut off again.
"I'm sorry but I gotta run to work!" Helen exclaimed while jumping up coffee in hand.
"Where DO you work?"
"See you tomorrow morning!" Helen called out while leaving the Dunkin Donuts they were sitting in. Her curls bounced, and her gray skirt swayed in the wind as she crossed the busy New York City street.
That was the last time James spoke with Helen or watched her dodge taxi's as she ran to work.
Question:
How do you remember the tragic events on 9/11? Were you even born yet? What do you remember? I was not in it, but I watched it all happen. I sat on a street curb watching the two magnificent towers tumble to the ground. I stood by as nameless people were pulled from the rubble and families frantically search for their loved ones. Many people were never found or named, Helen was one of them. Her story was never told, a body to match her name, she was just a name on a list of people who worked in the building.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
blog 2- 3 ways of writing
Telling only-
I was sitting in a Diner somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania. It was small and cozy, the floors had a dark blue carpet, and the walls were beige color. There were lots of windows, it was a free standing building. Where there weren't windows, there were pictures. All different but same in style, mostly of the blue variety. My mother and I were sitting at a light wood table with two matching chairs. Our table had crayon wax on it, a child had obviously sat here before. We were across from each other. We had just ordered our own breakfast and were now waiting. We had been talking about college applications and what not, filling in the time until we could finally eat. The bell at the door dinged and a friendly hostess inquired on the number of people. She pulled out a menu, just one. She put him in the table behind my mother, he sat in the chair facing me. He sat there for a little bit before a waitress walked up and gave him a menu. The menus had dark blue binding and off white paper, laminated. He stared at it for just a second and then asked if they're orange juice was freshly squeezed. He went on to ask about the blueberry pancakes, the special ones. He didn't want blueberry compote in the center but he wanted the blueberries on the top. He wanted to know if the blueberries were fresh as well. The waitress was responding to his demands as best as she could, as for the freshness, she had no clue. She has a look of distress on her face. She was an old young. She had a young face, but with a few smile lines. No crows feet yet. Her hair was shoulder length, black, and pin straight. She still had a young body. She wore her white blouse buttoned up to the top and tucked in to her black pants. She had a blue apron folded over at her hips, and standard black, nonslip sneakers. The man kept yapping about what he liked and how he wanted it. Finally the waitress cut in and said she would find a manager. The man said never mind and asked for something completely different. The woman with the black hair turned on a dime and hurried away.
Dialogue Only-
"So wasn't North Carolina great? Sure wish we were still there, Pennsylvania is absolutely terrible." My mother was going on about North Carolina.
"Yeah I really loved the college." I replied.
"I really hope you get in!" She was basically screaming.
The bell at the door dinged.
"How many today sir?" asked the hostess.
"Just one" The man said.
He was seated by us. A waitress approached after a moment.
"Is your orange juice freshly squeezed?" He asked.
"Uh, I don't think so." said the waitress.
"Of course not" replied the man with a sigh after. "These pancakes, is there blueberry in the middle and on top?"
"Yes it-"
"I only want the blueberries on top, not in the middle and that gooey syrup in a cup on the side. I want bacon but not really crispy, just kind of. No black on it but I don't want to have to bite it like a bear."
"Okay anything else."
"Actually yeah, are the blueberries fresh? Or is like your orange juice? And is the bacon local farms or it processed from some other state?"
"I'm not sure, let me get a manager" She said with a bit of distress.
"Never mind, it's fine. I'll just have buttermilk pancakes with hash browns."
"Alright" Her voice turned to obvious annoyance.
"Jeez, what a piece." My mother whispered to me.
"Yeah, glad I don't work in restaurants." I whispered back.
Little Bit of Both
I was sitting in a Diner somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania. It was small and cozy, the floors had a dark blue carpet, and the walls were beige color. There were lots of windows, it was a free standing building. Where there weren't windows, there were pictures. All different but same in style, mostly of the blue variety. My mother and I were sitting at a light wood table with two matching chairs. Our table had crayon wax on it, a child had obviously sat here before. We were across from each other. We had just ordered our own breakfast and were now waiting.
"So wasn't North Carolina great? Sure wish we were still there, Pennsylvania is absolutely terrible." My mother was going on about North Carolina.
"Yeah I really loved the college." I replied.
"I really hope you get in!" She was basically screaming.
The bell at the door dinged and a friendly hostess asked "How many today sir?"
She pulled out a menu, just one. She put him in the table behind my mother, he sat in the chair facing me. He sat there for a little bit before a waitress walked up and gave him a menu. The menus had dark blue binding and off white paper, laminated. He stared at it for just a second.
"Is your orange juice freshly squeezed?" He asked.
"Uh, I don't think so." said the waitress.
"Of course not" replied the man with a sigh after. "These pancakes, is there blueberry in the middle and on top?"
"Yes it-"
"I only want the blueberries on top, not in the middle and that gooey syrup in a cup on the side. I want bacon but not really crispy, just kind of. No black on it but I don't want to have to bite it like a bear."
"Okay anything else."
"Actually yeah, are the blueberries fresh? Or is like your orange juice? And is the bacon local farms or it processed from some other state?"
The waitress was responding to his demands as best as she could, as for the freshness, she had no clue. She has a look of distress on her face. She was still pretty young. She had a smooth, young face face, but with a few smile lines. No crows feet yet. Her hair was shoulder length, black, and pin straight. She still had a young body. She wore her white blouse buttoned up to the top and tucked in to her black pants. She had a blue apron folded over at her hips, and standard black, nonslip sneakers. The man kept yapping about what he liked and how he wanted it. Finally the waitress cut in and said she would find a manager.
"Never mind, it's fine. I'll just have buttermilk pancakes with hash browns."
"Alright" Her voice turned to obvious annoyance. She turned on a dime and hurried away.
"Jeez, what a piece." My mother whispered to me.
"Yeah, glad I don't work in restaurants." I whispered back.
I was sitting in a Diner somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania. It was small and cozy, the floors had a dark blue carpet, and the walls were beige color. There were lots of windows, it was a free standing building. Where there weren't windows, there were pictures. All different but same in style, mostly of the blue variety. My mother and I were sitting at a light wood table with two matching chairs. Our table had crayon wax on it, a child had obviously sat here before. We were across from each other. We had just ordered our own breakfast and were now waiting. We had been talking about college applications and what not, filling in the time until we could finally eat. The bell at the door dinged and a friendly hostess inquired on the number of people. She pulled out a menu, just one. She put him in the table behind my mother, he sat in the chair facing me. He sat there for a little bit before a waitress walked up and gave him a menu. The menus had dark blue binding and off white paper, laminated. He stared at it for just a second and then asked if they're orange juice was freshly squeezed. He went on to ask about the blueberry pancakes, the special ones. He didn't want blueberry compote in the center but he wanted the blueberries on the top. He wanted to know if the blueberries were fresh as well. The waitress was responding to his demands as best as she could, as for the freshness, she had no clue. She has a look of distress on her face. She was an old young. She had a young face, but with a few smile lines. No crows feet yet. Her hair was shoulder length, black, and pin straight. She still had a young body. She wore her white blouse buttoned up to the top and tucked in to her black pants. She had a blue apron folded over at her hips, and standard black, nonslip sneakers. The man kept yapping about what he liked and how he wanted it. Finally the waitress cut in and said she would find a manager. The man said never mind and asked for something completely different. The woman with the black hair turned on a dime and hurried away.
Dialogue Only-
"So wasn't North Carolina great? Sure wish we were still there, Pennsylvania is absolutely terrible." My mother was going on about North Carolina.
"Yeah I really loved the college." I replied.
"I really hope you get in!" She was basically screaming.
The bell at the door dinged.
"How many today sir?" asked the hostess.
"Just one" The man said.
He was seated by us. A waitress approached after a moment.
"Is your orange juice freshly squeezed?" He asked.
"Uh, I don't think so." said the waitress.
"Of course not" replied the man with a sigh after. "These pancakes, is there blueberry in the middle and on top?"
"Yes it-"
"I only want the blueberries on top, not in the middle and that gooey syrup in a cup on the side. I want bacon but not really crispy, just kind of. No black on it but I don't want to have to bite it like a bear."
"Okay anything else."
"Actually yeah, are the blueberries fresh? Or is like your orange juice? And is the bacon local farms or it processed from some other state?"
"I'm not sure, let me get a manager" She said with a bit of distress.
"Never mind, it's fine. I'll just have buttermilk pancakes with hash browns."
"Alright" Her voice turned to obvious annoyance.
"Jeez, what a piece." My mother whispered to me.
"Yeah, glad I don't work in restaurants." I whispered back.
Little Bit of Both
I was sitting in a Diner somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania. It was small and cozy, the floors had a dark blue carpet, and the walls were beige color. There were lots of windows, it was a free standing building. Where there weren't windows, there were pictures. All different but same in style, mostly of the blue variety. My mother and I were sitting at a light wood table with two matching chairs. Our table had crayon wax on it, a child had obviously sat here before. We were across from each other. We had just ordered our own breakfast and were now waiting.
"So wasn't North Carolina great? Sure wish we were still there, Pennsylvania is absolutely terrible." My mother was going on about North Carolina.
"Yeah I really loved the college." I replied.
"I really hope you get in!" She was basically screaming.
The bell at the door dinged and a friendly hostess asked "How many today sir?"
She pulled out a menu, just one. She put him in the table behind my mother, he sat in the chair facing me. He sat there for a little bit before a waitress walked up and gave him a menu. The menus had dark blue binding and off white paper, laminated. He stared at it for just a second.
"Is your orange juice freshly squeezed?" He asked.
"Uh, I don't think so." said the waitress.
"Of course not" replied the man with a sigh after. "These pancakes, is there blueberry in the middle and on top?"
"Yes it-"
"I only want the blueberries on top, not in the middle and that gooey syrup in a cup on the side. I want bacon but not really crispy, just kind of. No black on it but I don't want to have to bite it like a bear."
"Okay anything else."
"Actually yeah, are the blueberries fresh? Or is like your orange juice? And is the bacon local farms or it processed from some other state?"
The waitress was responding to his demands as best as she could, as for the freshness, she had no clue. She has a look of distress on her face. She was still pretty young. She had a smooth, young face face, but with a few smile lines. No crows feet yet. Her hair was shoulder length, black, and pin straight. She still had a young body. She wore her white blouse buttoned up to the top and tucked in to her black pants. She had a blue apron folded over at her hips, and standard black, nonslip sneakers. The man kept yapping about what he liked and how he wanted it. Finally the waitress cut in and said she would find a manager.
"Never mind, it's fine. I'll just have buttermilk pancakes with hash browns."
"Alright" Her voice turned to obvious annoyance. She turned on a dime and hurried away.
"Jeez, what a piece." My mother whispered to me.
"Yeah, glad I don't work in restaurants." I whispered back.
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